


The Adventure Of Crossroads Court (1882)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [33]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Caring Castiel, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Trains, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 19:12:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10623321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A crossroads and a nearby rugby club are the scene of a death where the killer seems obvious – but the local people are not so sure. And Holmes proves once more to have a big heart when it comes to the little things.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lljn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lljn/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the case of Morgan, the poisoner'.

It would have been totally opportunistic of me to have used Holmes' investigations away from London to explore England and take in all its many delights. However, when he told me that he had a case that would necessitate our travelling to the Somersetshire village of Winscombe, I thought immediately of the magnificent cathedral at nearby Wells, a town which served by trains on the same line which would take us there. However, I said nothing, even as we passed the cathedral city. I did not wish to be taking advantage of my friend’s innate good nature. 

Most definitely, one of the perks of being Holmes' whetstone in his cases was the first-class travel that he insisted on. I would have thought twice about paying extra for the relative luxury (or as regards some railway companies that I could mention, the marginally reduced level of discomfort!) that even second-class afforded, and would only have done so because that was what was socially expected of me. The luxury of well-padded seats was wonderful, even if I got the occasional questioning look on station platforms as to why I had was travelling with a bedraggled indigent that I had picked up from somewhere.

“What precisely is this case about?” I asked as we bowled along at a fair pace. We were indeed going via Witham, but I doubted that we would be stopping at the famous cathedral city, worse luck.

“A Mrs. Black has written me a most curious letter”, Holmes said, “which quite piqued my interest. She is the wife of the local vicar, and is concerned about a recent death in the village. Possibly a murder.”

I stared at him in confusion.

“Surely, then, she should have alerted the local constabulary?” I asked.

“That is one of the things that has piqued my interest”, he said. “She would tell me no facts of the case, safe to say that she would rather approach me than them for reasons that could not be communicated through the general post. Bearing in mind the single-mindedness with which the Post Office guards letters whilst in its possession, that is more than a little interesting.”

I could not but agree. Recently I had had to claim a letter of my own which had not been delivered because someone had written the address number untidily, and the local post office staff had made me feel almost like a criminal. Even though it had been my name on the damn letter!

“Our destination is the Crossroads Inn, a tavern halfway between Winscombe and the neighbouring village of Banwell”, Holmes said. “I note from the maps that the rugby club, which is shared between the two villages, is directly opposite, so that may have something to do with matters. And our client recommended that we purchase a local paper, so we shall have to get one from somewhere. I think our change station at Witham is too far away, so perhaps we could get one at Wells, and we could read it on the train going up the valley?”

Great, I groused to myself. I get to see my cathedral city for as long as it takes to buy a newspaper. Oh lucky me.

+~+~+

I was also somewhat depressed because our journey took place on January the twenty-third, which meant that the next day would be my birthday. To be precise, my thirtieth birthday. I would be thirty, which was practically middle-aged. Ugh!

I managed to obtain two local newspapers from the station vendor at Priory Road Station, where to my chagrin we waited some time before continuing up the valley. I was surprised that, just moments later, we passed through a second station in the town, Tucker Street, but Holmes explained that three rival railway companies had chanced to end branch-lines in the town, and each had originally had their own station. 

“I might suppose that the case we have been called on to investigate is the mysterious death of Mr. Japheth Arbuthnot”, Holmes observed after a while. “It is the only matter of import that relates to our destination, and took place some two days ago. The local constabulary are, and I quote, ‘baffled’.”

“My newspaper is a little more informative”, I said. “The victim was sixty-seven, a businessman who was looking to invest in the area prior to retiring to Weston-super-Mare, which is nearby. He was poisoned at....”

I looked up at Holmes in surprise.

“His home, Crossroads Court, just along from the Crossroads Inn”, I finished. Holmes smiled.

“Which is where the estimable Mrs. Black has arranged accommodation for us”, he said with a smile. “Well, things begin to fall into place. Some good Somersetshire air and a sharp case will be most beneficial, I think.”

I was pleased to see him looking so eager. He had suffered a cold after our return from Montgomeryshire last month, one that had teetered on the brink of developing into something nastier, and my ‘mother-hen tendencies’ had taken over, probably driving him round the bend, though he had forborn it without complaining. It was good to see him back to his normal self.

+~+~+

Mrs. Black was waiting to meet us off the train at Winscombe, and to take us to the Vicarage for tea and a briefing on the case before a cab would take us to the Crossroads Inn. She was a short, fussy lady with horn-rimmed glasses, and like all women of a certain age – married or not – was simpering at my friend before we were through the ticket barrier. Honestly, I couldn’t take him anywhere!

From the station it was but a short carriage ride to the vicarage, where our client had tea (and, thankfully, coffee!) served before she would enlighten us about the matter that had brought us here. I was impatient to learn of it, but of course Holmes was as charming as ever. Once the servants had withdrawn, our hostess began.

“As you can see from the shelves over there”, she said gesturing across to a heavily laden bookcase, “detective fiction is a weakness of mine, I greatly enjoyed your story about your case in Oxford, doctor, and it is because of that that I have requested your presence here.”

“You wish to know ‘whodunnit’?” I remarked.

She looked at me pointedly, and I felt like a scolded schoolboy.

“It is not that simple, doctor”, she said, clearly weighing her words carefully. “All the evidence points to one person, and that person certainly had motive, means and opportunity. Yet something in me wonders if it is all a little too obvious. And as you must know, there is no actual proof, because otherwise Constable Primrose would have made an arrest by now.”

Holmes sat back and smiled.

“Let us begin from the beginning”, he said, reaching for a sugared cake (how he could eat things like that and retain both his teeth and his figure was, I might add, another bone of contention between us). “You are clearly a lady of intelligence, so I would ask that you tell us exactly what happened, in the order it happened.

She took a deep breath (and somehow managed another simper whilst so doing), then began.

“The victim, Mr. Arbuthnot, was really the most odious man!” she said, sounding quite bitter. “I know one should not speak ill of the dead, but… well, really! I always felt like I needed to wash my hands after being anywhere near him. He lived in the North, but rented Crossroads Court – it is really a cottage - just along from the inn. He stayed there for weekends mostly, and the only person he was with him was a valet or some such, a foreigner called Gio or some such thing. I know for a fact that the poor man disliked him as much as everyone else around here; a few weeks ago he had a bruise on him when he came down, and I am sure that That Man gave it to him!”

I reflected that perhaps the late Mr. Arbuthnot was lucky that it was not him being on trial, as the likes of Mrs. Black would have doubtless hanged him as soon as looked at him. And probably have done it in person!

“One month ago, there was a whole lot of fuss when old Ben Morgan, who had owned the rugby field that sits at the crossroads, died in what the papers called ‘mysterious circumstances’. There was a lot of guff written about it by people who should have known better, but the honest truth, gentlemen, is that he took his own life, and he was driven to it by That Man!”

“Why?” Holmes asked. She looked surprised, but rallied.

“Mr. Arbuthnot wanted to buy the rugby club field and build houses on it”, she said. “That would have put the club – the Crossroads Blues; they have people from both villages in them – out of business. I suppose that Peg – Mrs. Brewster, the landlady of the inn - should have been pleased at all those potential new customers, but she was bitterly against the idea.”

How bitterly, I wondered.

“Mr. Morgan was finding it hard to make ends meet, living in that great big house of his out on the Bristol road”, she went on. “His son Philip had died, but he had a grandson, young Owen, who was devoted to him. He is studying at Bristol, but came down as often as he could.”

“So to the day of the murder. It was the day the Blues played Congresbury, our local rivals. Oxford and Cambridge have nothing on the dislike that can be roused in a small valley community, I can tell you. And the place was buzzing; we had just learnt that Mr. Morgan had sold the field to Mr. Arbuthnot only days before he had died.”

“I would ask you to pause a moment there”, Holmes said politely. “It seems that matters surrounding the first death are pertinent to the second one. Were there any suspicious circumstances?”

She looked disappointed, but shook her head.

“Doctor Stephens is a fool, but he is an honest fool”, she said, sounding almost regretful. “Everyone knew that old Ben had a weak heart, and personally I think all the pressure put on him by That Man was just too much for him.”

“I suppose that there was talk in the village, though”, I put in. She nodded.

“There are more ways of killing someone than sticking a knife into them”, she said coldly. 

“I presume that young Mr. Morgan is studying to be a doctor?” Holmes asked. She looked at him in surprise.

“Yes”, she said. “He is specializing in the research of certain poisons. How did you know?”

“Because all the indications are that he is the one coming under suspicion”, Holmes explained, “and poison, to which he would of course have had access, is one of the most difficult weapons to either prove or disprove. Has an autopsy been scheduled for the late Mr. Arbuthnot?”

“Doctor Stephens carried it out this morning”, she said. “Gio told us that he had no relatives, and all his money went to his business colleague, who is abroad somewhere or other. The doctor said that there was no sign of any poison in the body.”

I could see that Holmes was as surprised as I was. Of course _post mortem_ examinations were to be done as soon as possible, but this soon? Holmes thought for a moment, then nodded.

“I shall need to make several inquiries”, he said, “and also contact a source that I have back in London. Investigating two deaths will make this much harder. Did the late Mr. Morgan keep much in the way of serving-staff?”

“Not after he moved to his cottage”, she said. “A single servant, that was all. Andrews is as honest as the day is long; he went to Wells to live with his sister, as the police wanted to lock up the cottage for some reason.”

Holmes turned to me.

“Doctor, it is imperative that we have this servant’s testimony”, he said firmly. “Tomorrow I want you to go to Wells and find him, and get him to tell you everything he knows. I shall do what I can here, and await your return at the inn.”

I nodded, secretly excited at the prospect of a day in the cathedral city.

+~+~+

The Crossroads Inn looked decidedly weather-worn, although bearing in mind its position on an exposed hilltop between the villages of Winscombe and Banwell, that was hardly surprising. I noticed that the rugby pitch opposite had a definite slope to it, and wondered what it would be like to play on. 

Our hostess, Mrs. Brewster, was kind enough to admit us through the back door, so we could avoid the inevitable gawping that strangers in a village are always subject to. Holmes wanted to explore the late Mr. Arbuthnot’s cottage nearby, and had already collected the key from the local police station on our way up. I however felt a little tired from the day’s events thus far, especially as, some two days ago, I had suffered a slight ankle sprain, so Holmes suggested that I should stay at the inn and rest. I was glad; I hoped to be ready for a lot of walking on the morrow.

+~+~+

It was dark and I was reading on my bed when Holmes returned. Hearing his door close, I went and knocked on the connecting door.

“Enter!” he called out.

I walked in, to find that he was behind the screen, presumably changing into his night-clothes. I sat on his bed.

“Did you find anything of interest at Mr. Arbuthnot's cottage?” I asked.

“It is what I did not find that was interesting”, he said mysteriously.

“What did you not find, then?” I asked.

“Mess.”

“What?” I was confused.

“Most of the rooms had the standard sort of mess that any single male has as part of his daily life”, he said. “Books left out, papers, that sort of thing. But the front room, where the body had been found, had been cleaned extremely thoroughly. I find it intriguing that whoever cleans for him apparently only does one room to that extent.”

He came out from behind the screen, and to my surprise he was wearing what was most definitely a new long coat. A luxury one by the look of it, black and fur-lined.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“It is very nice”, I said, trying to keep the envy out of my voice. My own coat was well past its best, but until I obtained some patients who were either richer or, more likely, better payers, it would have to serve some years yet. “Is it not a little large for you?”

He took it off and looked at it, frowning.

“You are right”, he said with a sigh. “Then it is fortunate that it is not for me.”

My breath caught.

“Happy birthday, Watson”, he whispered. “Even if you are now thirty!”

I gave him a dirty look. Even allowing for the wonderful gift, that was totally uncalled for.

Whatever, I had a new coat. A new, warm coat, in time for the worst that winter could throw at me. Although the fact that this wonderful man had shown that he cared for me in this way warmed me more than any coat.

+~+~+

An excellent breakfast was followed by the arrival at the inn of a sharp-eyed young policeman who introduced himself as Constable Primrose. I would not go so far as to say that he resented our presence, but he was definitely wary for some reason, although he had brought his notebook and was evidently prepared to share what he knew of the case with us. I was eager to be off to the station and Wells.

“Mrs. Black said that she wanted to bring you in”, he said. “It all seems very cut and dried to me, but perhaps there’s something you can see that I’m missing.”

“That is always a possibility”, Holmes said. “Did Doctor Stephens have any idea as to what caused Mr. Arbuthnot’s death?”

“All he would say was that it was a heart-attack”, he said, “and it could have been brought on by any number of things. The man was not in a good physical condition, although he had his own doctor back up North. He was unpopular, but don’t usually kill people we dislike in Somersetshire.”

Mrs. Black might, I though acidly. Holmes gave me a reproving look, and I blushed. Damn mind-reading genius!

“Mr. Arbuthnot was alive and well at a few minutes past six on the day of his death”, the policeman continued. “The rugby match had finished at just before five, and naturally most of those involved came here immediately afterwards. He had been in Weston for the day, and returned to the station by the quarter to six train. He took a cab from there to his cottage; Meyrick – the cab-driver – remembers hearing the church clock strike as they were passing the inn.”

“What about his manservant?” Holmes asked. The constable shook his head.

“Day off”, he said looking distinctly depressed at the fact. “He took the train down to Cheddar, in the other direction, and spent the day at the library there. Both the librarian and the Cheddar station-master confirm that he took the half-past six train back, arriving at Winscombe just before a quarter to seven. He's a big fellow, so he's hard to miss. I guess he must have been anxious, as he was supposed to have dinner ready for his master’s return. Meyrick was back at the station when he came in, and offered him a free ride home.”

“That was good of him”, I said, surprised. I knew how foreigners often found it hard to be accepted in an insular village such as this. The constable nodded.

“I suppose Gio's all right”, the constable conceded, sounding more than a little grudging. “Meyrick drove him home, arriving at about five to seven. It was clear to both of them that something was up, because the front door was wide open. The two of them approached cautiously, and found Mr. Arbuthnot dead in the front room.”

“And people suspect young Mr. Morgan”, I observed. 

“Indeed”, the constable said heavily. “Unfortunately he went to the cottage at half-past six to argue for the return of the field. He says that harsh words were exchanged but no blows, and Doctor Stephens could not find any evidence of physical assault on the victim, so he may be telling the truth there. And there is one other odd thing, though it may be nothing.”

“What is that?” Holmes asked.

“Meyrick is not sure, but he thinks that when he dropped the victim off at the cottage, there was someone at one of the windows inside”, he said.

“A lady”, Holmes said at once. The policeman looked at him in surprise.

“What makes you think that?” he demanded.

“There was a pink garter under the bed in the main bedroom”, Holmes said. “Unless the late Mr. Arbuthnot's tastes ran to that sort of behaviour – and given his standing in the village, I am sure that such a thing would have swiftly been found out - I think that we may safely presume it was not his.”

“You looked under his bed?” the policeman asked. “Why?”

“Because that was where I expected to find it”, Holmes smiled. “Now, constable, what have you not told us? I presume that it concerns Mr. Owen Morgan?”

The policeman went bright red. I smiled inwardly; it was good when he saw through other people the same way he always saw through me.

“Two things, sir”, the policeman admitted. “First, when they were checking the body, Meyrick saw a poison bottle that had rolled under one of the chairs.”

“Rather careless of our murderer”, Holmes observed. “And the second thing?”

“Mrs. Pulling, a nosey old bat but reliable enough, says that she walked by the place and saw Mr. Arbuthnot in his garden at a quarter to seven”, the policeman said. “But Mr. Owen Morgan says that after his little confrontation with the victim, he went to spend the night with a friend in Congresbury. He took his horse rather than the train, but because his friend only has a small stables, he lodged the horse at the George Inn overnight. Cenwulf, the innkeeper, sent me a message today saying he will swear on the Bible that the man handed the horse over at ten to seven at the latest. Even if he had somehow stayed in the house and ambushed Mr. Arbuthnot when, presumably, he went back in after Mrs. Pulling had passed, there is no way Mr. Morgan could have got all the way to Congresbury in under five minutes. Cenwulf is one of those High Church folk, and I do not see why he would lie.”

“I am sure that he would not”, Holmes said with one of his knowing smiles. “This has really been a most interesting case, constable, but I expect it to come to a conclusion quite shortly. Indeed, probably within the next sixty seconds.”

The policeman looked at him in amazement, but sure enough, just seconds later the landlady was approaching, a nervous-looking woman in a plain grey dress lurking behind her and clearly very much wishing not to be seen. Constable Primrose looked at her dourly.

“Mabel Brown”, he said heavily. “What brings you here?”

The woman shuffled forward, every inch of her shaking figure proclaiming her wish to be anywhere but here.

“Allow me”, Holmes said smoothly. “This is the person who wishes to claim responsibility, at least indirectly, for the passing of the late and largely un-lamented Mr. Arbuthnot.”

The woman failed to hold back a loud sniff. The policeman’s brown furrowed.

“I don’t understand”, he said. Holmes smiled.

“Putting it as delicately as possible”, he said, “I believe Mr. Arbuthnot and Miss Brown here were, as you may say, about to perform sexual congress when the strain proved too much for the elderly man involved. _La morte d’amour_ is thought by many to be just a fairy tale, but figures show that it does happen, and rather more often than most people would like to think.”

__

__

Another sniff. The constable looked at the woman, who suddenly burst into speech.

“He just fell over!” she burst out. “I thought he was kidding again – he'd done it before - but I went over to him, and he was…. gone! Dead as a door-nail!”

Mrs. Brewster kindly came up and led her away, leaving a stunned policeman sat opposite us.

“I think that this case is closed”, Holmes said firmly. “The doctor and I will leave this morning, and allow your tranquil little village to get back to its deserved peace and quiet.”

I could not but agree.

+~+~+

We had said our goodbyes to Mrs. Black and were seated on the train back down the valley before I remembered. This would mean that my day-trip to Wells was unnecessary. Damnation!

“So the shady lady done it!” I said wryly, trying to distract myself from my loss.

To my surprise, Holmes chuckled.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Oh Watson!” he said with a smile. “How you underestimate these so-called simple country folk. Mr. Arbuthnot was killed by young Mr. Owen Morgan, the grandson of the man he swindled the rugby-field out of.”

I stared in astonishment.

“But the shady lady!” I objected. He chuckled again.

“This is how it all worked out”, he said. “There were several people in on the ramp; the killer Mr. Owen Morgan, Constable Primrose, Miss Brown, Meyrick, Gio, Mr. Selwyn, Mrs. Pulling, Doctor Stephens, quite probably Mrs. Brewster, and of course Mrs. Black.”

“But…. but she was the one who brought you onto the case!” My voice sounded unnaturally high, but I was still trying to grasp back hold of reality, which seemed to have eluded me some way. He smiled.

“Any suspicious death was bound to attract the attentions of the local newspapers”, he explained. “What better way to lance that boil by bringing in a consulting detective, who would be there when the ‘truth’ – in this case, the fabricated story that was destined to come out when the time was right – finally emerged.”

I stared at him in shock.

“At just after six, Meyrick drives Mr. Arbuthnot home”, he said. “The manservant Gio, who we know dislikes him and with good reason, has already arranged to ‘miss his train home’, so it will be nearly an hour before he discovers the dead body. And there is indeed someone waiting in the house for the victim. Not Mabel Brown, but young Mr. Morgan.”

“I would wager that chloroform was the method of silencing the victim, prior to his being force-fed poison”, Holmes said, as if he were not calmly reciting an act of murder. “Knowing some little of the character of young Mr. Morgan, I am sure that he would wish to make sure that the man who effectively drove his grandfather to his death knew precisely of the reasons for his own demise.”

I was doing passable impressions of a fish out of water.

“In a closed community such as this, everyone pulled together”, Holmes went on, as he quietly re-arranged my world order. “Constable Primrose was of course in on it, as was the local doctor, who found no evidence of poison in the body during his very hasty _post mortem_. The poison bottle found near the body was designed to look like a clumsy attempt to incriminate young Morgan, who would then be cleared by both the evidence from Congresbury and the revelation of the real 'culprit', Miss Brown. The garter was of course hers, and doubtless had we persisted she would have tearfully admitted to seeing Mr. Arbuthnot previously, which Gio, I am sure, would have confirmed.”

“His own servant”, I muttered.

“That the man could lose the loyalty of the one person who might have protected him speaks volumes about his character”, Holmes said coldly. “And my investigations, such as they were, showed that he did indeed swindle old Mr. Morgan out of that field. Then we have Mrs. Pulling, who conveniently 'sees' the dead man in his garden, which event proves an important part of what will form Mr. Owen Morgan's alibi. Ah, we are here!”

I looked up in surprise. I may have been in shock, but I was sure the journey back to the junction at Witham had been much longer on the way down. I scrambled inelegantly out of the carriage after my friend, and caught sight of the station name-board.

‘Wells (Priory Road)’. I stared at him in shock.

“I know how much you wanted to visit the cathedral here”, he said with a smile, “so I have booked tickets back on the late afternoon train. We have nearly five hours, enough time to explore both cathedral and town.”

I would like to say that I did not cry at his perspicacity, but it would be a lie.

+~+~+

Next, a case involving minutes and seconds - but no time, and some grave consequences!


End file.
